


To The Rising Full Moon

by horse



Category: Dark Souls, Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls III
Genre: Depictions/inference of cannibalism, M/M, aldrich is involved so its going to be unsavory, decidedly unhealthy dynamic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2018-10-13 19:41:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10520517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horse/pseuds/horse
Summary: The Pontiff has done his kind favour, but from the start, Aldrich does not know just how to best enjoy this most enchanting bauble.





	1. Upon the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> _Wilt thou suddenly enshroud thee,_  
>  _Who this moment wert so nigh?_  
>  _Heavy rising masses cloud thee,_  
>  _Thou art hidden from mine eye._  
>  _Yet my sadness thou well knowest,_  
>  _Gleaming sweetly as a star!_  
>  _That I'm loved, 'tis thou that showest,_  
>  _Though my loved one may be far._  
>  _Upward mount then! clearer, milder,_  
>  _Robed in splendour far more bright!_  
>  _Though my heart with grief throbs wilder,_  
>  _Fraught with rapture is the night!_  
>  \- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
> 
>  
> 
> Operating under a few tweaks/theories: **New Gravelord Theory** where Aldrich's body is a mass grave a la Nito. His appearance in game is a conglomerate of corpses rather than Gwyndolin-scraps, so that it is safe to assume he can _slip into something more humanoid_. Sort of. Also that Aldrich is still somewhat religious or at least in tune with religious themes, on a sort of sociopathic crusade for the age of the Deep Sea. That Gwyndolin isn't exactly a wholly innocent and sweet child, but rather someone who drove mass undead to horrific ends in an attempt to rally towards his father's goals/the linking of the fire. Oh, the mistakes of youth.
> 
> I do not pretend to be a connoisseur of souls lore and beg the forgiveness of scholars everywhere for my literary transgressions. This work is 10000% self-indulgent.

Journey complete, fate half-met, Gwyndolin’s body sat lackadaisy against the precipice of his apprehension: not against the wall of a prison, by architectural definition. The Pontiff encased him in a holy room, that he may pray for a quicker death than most had met by the ever-unhinged jaws of famed Lord Aldrich. But there was nothing of weight to beg of Gods that did not listen; could not listen, anyway. Gwyndolin had made his peace well before imprisonment.

It was not the ugly, sulfurous beast of candlelit gossip that met Gwyndolin that night, nor anything as markedly abhorrent in frame or structure. In fact, had Aldrich not looked at him, he would have never known that man to be the Lord. But the glass eyes, emptied by age and act and death and life again, spoke in measures, somehow, of his fading humanity, if it even yet persisted. He was like a painting, both ugly and beautiful, made of horrid and erratic strokes that assembled into frightful enchantment.

Repulsive Dark Sun Gwyndolin, frail in body and now in nerve, found uneasy familiarity in this display, which could have only been a mirage… not so different from his illusions. Aldrich having no true form was what he had come to know, to accept - every atrocity had stripped that human privilege, layer by layer, until only the greed remained, content to exist in any shape that enabled itself. A dark mass, pulsating and hideous, propelled by it’s own, unrelenting hunger into a strange abyss, where Gwyndolin had seldom tread the skirts of. And yet, there was a glimmer of reality, shinning as a single thread in the moonlight curtain hair that fell like a million gossamer strings to his collarbones, and perhaps they were… sewn by spiders into a pilfered scalp. Perhaps that was the truth of Aldrich’s body. That it was counterfeit, if it was real.

“My Lord, I am-”

“Yes, I am quite aware.” 

Gwyndolin bit his tongue - not out of fear, rather, out of annoyance, not that he would ever let Aldrich know. Maybe the Lord of Cinder didn’t like talking with his food. Fair enough. That, or perhaps it was because the voice came with strange difficulty, as if the instrument was antique. It was not very elegant, the first departure from the deceptively delicate appearance; it was something just above a scratching whisper. 

So there Gwyndolin stood, awkwardly, holding his fingers gingerly at his front, uncomfortable without his crown.

“Interestingly, you are none of the things I expected.” 

It echoed against the walls, and in Gwyndolin’s head. He looked at Aldrich before averting his gaze again, having no remark, no rebuttal. Aldrich hadn’t elaborated on whether this surprise was a good or bad omen, though Gwyndolin could surmise that, for himself, it would most likely be the latter. Not knowing quite what was being referenced (His state? His appearance?), nor how to respond, he remained silent, watching the tendrils of Aldrich’s ragged garb flow like burnt wisps of their former selves with every motion. It was odd that lips could smile, but still be unkind, even in the slightness of the gesture. Despite practised politeness, nothing betrayed the truth.

Aldrich floated closer, mindful of the snakes that spilled from Gwyndolin’s robes, which tasted the air cautiously - watchdogs, they were, ever decoding things lost on their ward. They had a lot to say, it seemed, but Gwyndolin tuned them out, refusing to follow the figure of the Lord as he made his inspecting circle. There had been infinite comfort in being tucked away in father’s tomb, behind a host of illusions… behind a covenant. And now, he was showcased like a spitroasted pig. What was worse, when Aldrich reappeared in Gwyndolin’s periphery, his expression was as flat and serene as it had been moments ago, pink lips in their painted smile, glass eyes pale and dead.

“Follow me, fair Gwyndolin, that we might dine together.”

***

“Please, stop this.”

The undead thing was still, at least, presumable that there was still some time until it would reanimate. Aldrich peered at him from across the table, hands clasped so that his thumbnails were touching his lips. The level blue gaze punctured him, a thick arrow in his chest, driven further with every lingering moment.

“If you wanted me fattened, you might have given the Pontiff some word beforehand.” Gwyndolin swallowed, hands in his lap so present company would not see them shake. What harm would his abrasiveness do, really? He couldn’t imagine a reality where he wasn’t suffering, Lord Aldrich as orchestrator or not. This was beyond the capabilities of his will. A protest was to be expected.

Fingers moved away, and those lips seemed to twitch with something; had it been irritation, he might have felt more nervous, but Gwyndolin felt it was something more akin to amusement. Which was somehow worse, in the span of things.

“If this be a sin in your eyes, then what would you call the rest of your... political history?” Aldrich posed, gravelly voice dragging itself over hot stones, escaping like heavy steam. Gwyndolin stared for a moment, stared at him as if he had never been so affronted, and yet like he had never been so anguished to fight back and argue his cause. True, that he had done some unkind, even ugly things, but what where those transgressions next to Aldrich’s? And in the name of what noble cause did the great Saint Aldrich operate? Not the linking of the fire, from which he had been so thoroughly distracted. Gwyndolin was wrenched from his thoughts by the echoing remainders of his adjudication.

“Surely you have.... seen sacrifice before, can you turn your nose up at it so easily? Lost... as you are to your own kin?” Aldrich had placed his chin on folded hands, looking down at him. “No matter what you do, it will be... most cruel… there is no escape from that, if it is virtue that your little heart seeks.”

It sounded almost sweet, and Gwyndolin found himself looking at the smouldering flesh before him, gnarled and twisted into a most unnatural position. From the pain or the scorching, he did not know. Yes, he was forgotten almost utterly, first by his father, and then by his siblings. What little say he had in the matter of his elder brother held no weight. They were all equivalently and decisively gone.

“Please-”

There was a grotesque sound that came then, as Aldrich submerged a knife into some appendage of the thing. The cry was weak, but it sounded enough to make Gwyndolin close his eyes and try to forget it ever happened. In vain, of course, as it ricocheted in his head many times over, mixing with the miserable gurgling that replaced the initial cry. He tried to breathe in. The smell was overwhelming.

“Please.” Aldrich echoed, smiling wider, tighter. He leaned back into a recline, elbow on the arm of his chair, fingers at his cheek.

Gwyndolin had spent so much time cultivating what he thought to be strengths. Everything in spite of what his father had always thought: a moonlit child he might have been, but he could have done… did do great things. To light Anor Londo in golden glory was no fool trick… to cast the image of Gwynevere, to keep her alive, in essence… to forsee the covenant that would see his father’s will be done. To rule as a Nameless Moon. All this and more, ever in the face of dissent.

But he would die here, regardless. Aldrich would have him, regardless. Concession was a bitter taste, as it always was, but there was nothing left to live for now, not with his fate was promised, decorated for this very table. The only thing to look forward to was some semblance of rest in the hopes that Aldrich would fulfill his duty, rekindled by his most ambitious feast to date. Gwyndolin was admittedly tired of fighting everything and everyone for the chance to be anything but inferior and unwanted - to no avail, as it were. There slithered a faint desire in him, not unlike that to please his father, though why he felt that twinkling presence in the darkest depths of his soul, here and now, he could not say.

He slowly took the knife in his hand, fingers coiling around it, and the serpents at his lower half coiled reservedly in tandem. Aldrich watched him carefully, and Gwyndolin noted that his company had started to look… alive; in his eyes flickered something he had seen before, many times, as he cut off a charred hand with a sure sweep. It could have been painless, had the thing been dead or closer to it than presently so, but in this age that was a strange blessing. The piece rocked, tapping his plate gently, beseeching him. In Aldrich’s eyes was reverence.

It was familiar to Gwyndolin in certain ways, none of which pertained to himself, personally. Even the most loyal disciples were more pious than adoring.

Reverence. Gwyndolin suddenly understood Aldrich’s gluttony as he witnessed the light that had settled in the cold, cratered depths of Aldrich’s irises. Could the Lord still feel happiness, sordid as it might have been? Gwyndolin felt his heart race as he looked at what was in his own hand - what he had done… black crumbs fell to his skirts, dappling the scales of his coiling legs. He bit without thinking.

It was disgusting, of course. A god could not wretch, or shouldn’t. That mantra reeled him back into dignity, or a sliver of it, as he tore away, and swallowed, and let the charcoal thing drop from his trembling hands. He would not let himself define it.... was almost glad it was so malformed, so indistinguishable. It moved, and he turned his head. 

The fabric of Aldrich’s robes twinkled at him shortly thereafter as they settled into comfortable folds and shapes, still pretty despite their state. Gwyndolin had a moment to think before Aldrich lifted his face with a cool hand, even leaned in to survey… whatever it was that had enchanted him. When he had moved from his seat, when he had taken position beside his chair: Gwyndolin had no mind to investigate such things, not when he was busy praying uselessly for mercy.

“The taste will be ambrosia, the screams… hymns, they will make you quiver. And then there will be an end for you. I will swallow you…” The god met glass eyes, mouth tight.

“I will never-can never enjoy it… I…” Gwyndolin’s lip twitched. “Beg, of thee, to-”

Aldrich seemed to sour. For a normal man that meant a certain scowl, but instead there was placid calm, like the surface of still-water, smoothing the lines of his face. Fingers tightened around Gwyndolin’s jaw, effectively stopping him.

“Don’t do that. Don’t beg.”

It seemed that Aldrich wanted to save him the grievance, for whatever reason. Gwyndolin felt sheepish, something he could never predicted to have felt in this dining hall, not for all his intuition. After a moment, Aldrich fell back into his synthetic smile, looming over Gwyndolin, still, who could swear he did not feel a single breath through the whole ordeal.

“True that I have been waiting for this… most momentous occasion.” His stilted speech was fitting, punctuated at odd times, perhaps by the difficulty of operating after spending too much time in such a vague state of being. With time, it seemed to be more laboured. Was speech taxing? “Though I wanted it as quickly… as could be managed, it would be so unsatisfactory, to liberate you from your torment... so abruptly.” Aldrich slunk backwards, only to lower himself to eye level with Gwyndolin, who remained seated, his snakes jostled into motion by the reckless pumping of blood that drummed in his chest and ears and wrists. When his hands were taken, one appendage feinted at the offending Lord, who did not even avert his gaze, let alone flinch. Aldrich held Gwyndolin’s hands palm-up, like a soothsayer might. 

“Are these not the hands where fell sinners ears? Or did you... never touch the prizes brought to you by your faithful? ...Pity, that.” The end had tapered into a mutter, pretentious, and did its duty of making Gwyndolin feel small. Long gone were the days of his supposed youth, that was even distinct, now, in his physicality, although he had never climbed to the heights of his eldest brother, and certainly not his father. There might have been Blades which still considered him female yet.

Gwyndolin watched with crafted poise as Aldrich settled his cheek against an open palm, which curled absently - he could kick himself had he the foot to do it - around flesh which had little warmth to it, if any. It was animated by an archaic thrum of sorcery, Gwyndolin supposed, rather than a blooded heart. Aldrich was much easier to look at when his eyes were closed. He seemed more like an actual person, then, and Gwyndolin found himself wondering what kind of person Aldrich had been before his rapturous descent into vice.

“If you wish to know,” Gwyndolin began softly, “The offerings of oath-swearers met mine own hands, though didst so in privacy. My… appearance made open praise unwise.”

“I’ve seen far worse.” Aldrich seemed highly amused, though thankfully did not press the matter. He carried on after a short moment of thought. “Cropped… so perhaps the whispers of heresy.... would not reach them in death?” He moved, slightly, to look up at Gwyndolin in a most disconcerting fashion. “A sweet thought that will... not help, I’m afraid.” It was odd to hear him wax supernal, damning as it was. Gwyndolin sighed despite himself, eyes to the ceiling, which was very... Decorated. Ornate. And high.

“That gave me some peace, in mine own naiveté.”

The conversation was like one among friends, or acquaintances, held in the space between hours, where nothing really existed. The stillness, the quietness, had become almost soothing. Occasionally, soft sounds of life would permeate through, but they gave the moment normalcy, not edge: the distinct sound of a candelabra being lifted; distant footsteps; a heavy door that was far enough away to sound more like a memory than anything else. There was no emotion here… no sadness or joy, just a forgivable, understandable staleness.

“I thought you would be done with me by anon. What else you want with me, I cannot imagine.” It couldn’t have been wise to speak freely, but Gwyndolin was sure he had nothing to lose. Aldrich would not be swayed so easily by a few words one way or the other.

The figure in question peered at him with suspected curiosity, then gave his rebuttal. “It would be unkind to waste you.”

There were endless meanings to that statement, Gwyndolin knew, but all the same, he felt his chest tighten. Ill. Imprisonment had made him truly ill. He smiled down at his inevitable usurper.

“Then do not.”

Aldrich blinked at him. Gwyndolin felt his lip twitch as he tried to stay composed. He bit back the fear of a grotesque and undignified demise, fingers curling in his lap, snakes audacious at moth eaten skirts. Let it end.

“What bravery…” The Lord lingered there at his lap, eyes cast downward before he drifted upwards, hands coming to rest on the arms of the dark-wood chair. “If you knew the hideous things they say… well you might’ve heard… it’d be endearing, how much you want to die, if… not a little disappointing.” The arms creaked with the added weight, and again when Gwyndolin sat backwards against a hard, polished surface. 

“I have time. You have not… witnessed the vastness… the sureness of a new age. Still fixed to the fading one… to your father. It is ended, Gwyndolin... It is ended. Your perseverance, endlessly charming, was for nought.” Gwyndolin’s eyes burned. He could not allow himself to weep, not for the memory of his father, or the legacy he left behind… he had tried. He had done all he could - 

“The mark of your… fool’s errand was their departure… one after another...” Was Aldrich laughing? He couldn’t - 

”You were wasted once... I will not allow it again.”


	2. Upon the Stone

Aldrich had left him there, to his own devices. To his penance. Gwyndolin clutched at the armrests of his seat like they were all that would keep him from being sucked into the sky, wrists lifted, fingertips white. So, the Lord did not intend to link the flame after all. That much could be surmised from his most blaspheming opinions… what could he do? He was in no state to take on an entire congregation. Heavens only knew what Aldrich himself was capable of. Gwyndolin supposed he should be less of a coward, but really, that title had marked the better half of his career, and it was a hard crutch to cast aside.

Who did he have, anyway?

Slithering past the last candelabra before a turn, he touched the cool wall and peeked down the way, pulling fabric over his eyes. Embarrassing, that they seemed to think so little of him as to let him wander. Be that as it may, he was glad for the underestimation, lest he waste away in some singular, somber chamber or other, trapped again. Enough of that.

There were stairs winding down, so he took them, already lost. He could wander all night in the surety that he would have gotten little if any sleep at all. There was a small corridor, lit by a window roughly the size of himself - on one side there was a railing, over which he could see a decent amount of stairs. They must have extended several floors, but his interests lay in the view opposite to the drop, back to the window. The moon was high and bright. It shimmered against a wash of royal blue, and the picture was endlessly beautiful. Gwyndolin came to a slow halt, hand caressing the sill as he leaned into the light, felt it give him life that the air of this place could no longer offer.

A few faithful kept a watchful eye, but the god was a boring mark. They had made him unimpressive and decidedly nonthreatening: his garb had never inspired more than a regal status… it was not armour in commonplace respects, nor was it particularly intimidating in design. Not without his crown, which he sorely missed, if only for the barrier between himself and others. Gwyndolin tugged at the hem of his makeshift hood absent-mindedly, and turned away from the window at last to continue his sauntering. Removed from the masquerade as a woman, he had become partial to shorter hair, though it still brushed his cheekbones, and the tickled the back of his neck. And his frame, well. Not much of a brute, to put it mildly.

He came upon a door, small and secret looking. Against his better judgement, he pulled at the handle, and crouched to pass through.

The door led to a bedchamber, dimly lit by large, uncovered windows. Fabrics in red and black, gold trimmed and embroidered, decorated every surface, hung at every corner. There were candles, too, all unlit, in various stages of life. The general upkeep was poor… perhaps the room had been abandoned. Gwyndolin’s gaze lowered, and caught something peculiar.

A dark mass. He focused, and it took shape - a body?

He was not unaccustomed to this view. Especially now, and in recent years. But in someone’s quarters? Not a likely curiosity. The bodies occurred in growing piles, and, he realised with remarkable discomfort, did not adhere to any pattern other than a haphazard toss. His bright eyes drifted to the bed, where something ink-coloured was curled into the bedding, spilling over the side… stark white flashed from under a dark shroud.

Gwyndolin felt everything in his body stiffen as if he were already dead, well before Aldrich’s gaze fell upon him, well before the Lord’s impassiveness gave way for something which deeply affected the deity; his lips in that manufactured shape, straight out of a mold. Aldrich didn’t speak for what seemed like the longest time, thrusting Gwyndolin into distressed, nerve-deadening silence.

“This is forward for anyone of a devout faith… don’t you think?”

Gwyndolin was trying not to stare at what was nestled between thick velvet. Unfortunately, there were not very many favourable options.

It breathed… or at least expanded with the calm rhythm of breath. 

In a shameful display, he instead tugged the frail hem of his hood further down to cover a good portion of his face, so that it felt as if only his mouth was showing.

“I… will remove myself at once. Forgive me.” He backed away, only to be caught by something intangible. Aldrich spoke, and it was the stone that sank him further into the depths of helplessness. Gwyndolin could not move.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Aldrich settled into his pillows again, folding his hands over his chest. So it did move. It moved like there was something at work underneath it, after all. “Approach the foot… here…” He pointed lazily without unlacing his fingers much more than necessary. Gwyndolin felt himself propelled, forgetting when he had ever instructed his scaled legs to maneuver the elaborate, but obviously aged stone tile.

Sorcery must have been the reason he thought Aldrich had legs, when he distinctly did not. His torso faded into something black and gelatinous at the navel… a long tail, shifting slightly, catching the light in an otherworldly way. In all his time, Gwyndolin had never seen the likes of it.

Aldrich remained propped up by the cushions at his back, sinking into the silk, disrobed, but tangled in sheets and a heavy throw. The latter half of him fell off the bed and then under it - where it ended was impossible to know - and Gwyndolin caught the familiar curves and lines of human bones trapped in the mortar of it. The moonlight hit everything it could, everything that was not darkened by the bed’s canopy. Gwyndolin suspected that he was backlit by it at the moment as his eyes followed his own shadow. It rippled over Aldrich in an almost ominous way, like their positions had been switched.

“Lower your… veil.”

The sound of it was borderline romantic, and made his gut twinge… like feeling the point of a blade against the soft skin, not yet stabbed. Gwyndolin hesitated, but did as commanded. It would not have served either of them to turn to dramatics just yet.

“What do you see… I wonder. What have Gods seen?” In this room, his voice had lost it’s echo. It was not the sound of omnipotent damnation, but something rather soft, fragmented by suffering that Gwyndolin could not imagine. The state of Aldrich’s soul scared him more than an alien exterior.

“Much.” Gwyndolin responded softly, fingers sliding around a bedpost. “Do not pretend yourself the worst.”

“How kind of you.” The Lord seemed to be caught off guard, again. Perhaps he had thought his prize to have a fraction of the audacity Gwyndolin so stubbornly clung to. Even in the face of death, he would not be entirely snuffed out. He could be proud. He had earned it, he was almost sure. 

“Have you never met kindness in your life?” The words escaped him before he could stuff them back inside where they verily belonged - he felt his lower lip tremble with regret, but he could not look away from Aldrich’s ice. The chill of it ran through him top to bottom, leaving no organ, no muscle unscathed. 

“I suspect we have… a very different perspective on… kindness.” Aldrich had begun to pull himself upwards, and then forwards. Gwyndolin did not allow himself the luxury of retreat. “And I gather… on your image.”

“My image?”

Aldrich overlaid his long fingers over Gwyndolin’s, each finger but the thumb hitting it’s counterpart separately and with purpose.

“Soft, glowing… unblemished skin. Warm in colour as in touch. And they are wrong to… suspect you so thin.” Gwyndolin caught the corner of his upper lip curl - did not know what to make of this, though his body had an idea, evident by the heat at his cheeks and his humiliating quiver. He could not pretend to dislike the praise, not for all the world, and it raged a tempest in his heart, blacker than any abyss.

“Th-that is…” Untrue. Unwarranted. Inappropriate? In the midst of his silent panic, Gwyndolin had forgotten Aldrich’s furtive approach, and remembered with a loud, hiccuping gasp when a hand touched his waist. He caught it without thinking, Aldrich inches from his face, ever serene.

“What sort of kindness were you... spared?”

Eyes searching in what was obvious bewilderment, and then scandalised knowing, the god felt his fingers tighten, despite himself, around Aldrich’s wrist. “Nothing thou art capable of.” Malice became tame in the shake of his words. Aldrich seemed unphased by the remark. He simply remained there, like a cobra seconds from striking - and strike he did, though not in the suit of language.

His lips were deceptively heated, and fell like a moth upon the table. It was true, Gwyndolin had never known it; harshness flashed at him, rattled him as he thought Aldrich might have… not that he had ever given it thought, kin forsake him. They had, hadn’t they? Something plummeted from chest to middle, and burned like hot coals there. But it was a gentle thing, and he spiraled into the center of the moment until he hit the cold, stone ground of rationality. Gwyndolin pulled away, or maybe present company had allowed him to edge backwards… Aldrich didn’t seem very interested in locking him into place. Something real had trickled into the geometry of his exoskeleton, and he was solid; less like a malevolent spirit.

“Thine intent…”

“Ugliness.” Aldrich responded without hesitation, but the bluntness of it, paired with the untroubled whisper it was packaged in, charmed Gwyndolin more than it frightened him. Scales met cool wood, some bold enough to jostle velvet. Stupid, curious things. If these snakes were so a part of him, should they not lack this free will? Though if Aldrich minded their adventures, he did so in some secret way.

If he were to die this night, he might do so in the stranglehold of desire. That land heretofore had been a twinkling of a star, and just as vastly out of reach.

Wanted. Wanting. He could play with those words, now, without getting stung.

“And you will kill me?” Gwyndolin ventured, asking as if it were marriage on the table and not his utter demise. He hovered close to Aldrich’s mouth, drawn, for a moment, by an exhale not his own.

“When I am done.” Aldrich waited there, a curious hunter, watching for the white deer to impale itself upon an arrow. Soothed by this response, they met again, Gwyndolin leaning forwards, braced as he would be in mind if not wholly in body. What would Aldrich think of him? What would he taste like? The weight of the world came down on him, and Gwyndolin had no capacity to be anything other than curious.

Velvet warmed him from underneath. The accursed saint felt like a man, then, half draped on him, but somehow not yet heavy. Gwyndolin fancied himself well beyond dead, and as such, well beyond the threat of consequence; he ran a hand through the long, silver hair that cloaked his bare chest. Aldrich lifted himself from a blossoming bruise on a milky shoulder to send him a glance, possibly of bewilderment, at the gesture. Now, he looked like a man, too. Flushed. Distracted.

They did not speak, and Gwyndolin was glad for it. Nevertheless, as the moments trotted by, he found himself wondering which would be the final one… when he would feel that sovereign pain. By and by he had forgotten the circumstances, enveloped in the novelty of being held, and kissed, and even bitten. Somehow, his flesh knew the difference between sins, did not tense at the feel of teeth for all that it knew of the bearer. Not yet.

His snakes took to coiling, as they were wont to do, and he could swear Aldrich was amused. When the first sense of them on skin had jarred him, Gwyndolin’s eyes snapped open, ready to find an expression of disgust, and was met instead with the sight of Aldrich running his mouth along the underbelly of one appendage. The sensation was a jolt, cousin to the sorcery of the sun, and it forced his mouth open to let out something soundless, heavens be thanked.

They would be cruel in time, when it was clear that Aldrich had become privy to just how alike they were in physicality.

No one had ever gotten as far. There were a variety of reasons, few revolving around what slithered in place of legs, ironically. Gwyndolin was unsure of what he feared more, in terms of all that seemed inevitable, feeling anxiety buzz away in his fingertips and ears, and then Aldrich’s mouth ran against something else, and the world slipped out from under him. He was not so lucky with composure this round - a soft keen interrupted the relative noiselessness, and put even more colour to his skin. One merciless taste after another, with Aldrich delighting at every compulsory cry, had all of Gwyndolin writhing with a shamelessness he never thought possible, let alone acceptable. Could this be defined as kindness? When all it did was drive him to a place of such humiliation… such virulent need?

Finally, the torture stopped, and blurred vision brought him the sight of Aldrich returning to the upper half of him, licking his lower lip. Green and blue moonlight caught in the sheen left by his tongue, and entranced Gwyndolin, who was still struggling to gather his wits, at least enough to brace himself for whatever would be next. A hand had disappeared down in the tangle of snakes, and Gwyndolin closed his eyes in an attempt to refuse reality. A fool’s plan if there ever was one.

In no time at all, it was terrible bliss. Again, the novelty of being explored in this way was artfully paired with the odd pleasure that his body felt without permission. Why was he supposed to be uncomfortable? For all the evil Aldrich was made up of, the only flash of it Gwyndolin had seen was in carnal pleasure - that sort of thing… and in his honesty, perhaps, but it could also be a virtue, in a sense. As much as he would have loved, no doubt, to dissect this facet of the Devourer’s character, Aldrich’s fingers would not give him a second towards the effort. Further they crept, until finally they hit a piece of him that made every pain, every instance of discomfort, melt into nothing.

He felt tears trickle down on side of his face and fall into his ear. Everything else was rather muted in place of aftershock as he tried to find footing after… whatever that was. There was true cruelty in the way Aldrich chased the feeling, hitting the spot again, and Gwyndolin’s nails dug without pause into his forearm. When Aldrich bit his chest, right bellow the collarbone, it was unkind; it was too hard and too lingering. Bloody. But for all Gwyndolin’s assumed purity, he could not respond adequately, instead sending a muffled moan into the skin of Aldrich’s shoulder.

Aldrich sprung up, mouth wet and red, eyes blinking and wide for a moment before a haze seemed to grab hold of him. Gwyndolin stared, addicted to the humanity of it, the candidness… he wanted to see it again. So he kissed him, and met the taste of his own blood. This, at least, was no novel experience after a lifetime of godliness.

To know how much time had passed was impossible, nor important as Gwyndolin rocked, comfortable as ever, in and against expensive bedding, not unlike his own. No doubt Aldrich was hungry; perhaps Gwyndolin was to be swallowed up at any moment, but he didn’t care. Heavens, how little did he care. All he could think about was this feeling, inside and out, that came with being the object of someone’s hunger, and it was beautiful, and fulfilling, and addicting. 

He heard Aldrich exhale his name. He could not answer, mind far away, spoken language inaccessible, except to hold him. Pull him. Make use of his mouth if he would not - if he chose to postpone whatever plans he’d had… part of him felt cheated, but the rest of him was content to play to Aldrich’s vulgar whims, if this was their sum. Death was promised. Pleasure, less so. 

In the end, he could feel the shake of his limbs, the wetness in his hair and somewhere much more disgraceful. There was warmth, there were fingers pushing hair away from his face, behind an ear, and breaths at his neck. The world was quiet, and sleep was dreamless.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this turned out so short, but I thought anything else might stray too far from anything believable. Aaaand I could've waxed poetic for a few more paragraphs, but it would've had little bearing. :^) Thanks for reading, and thanks for all the nice words - truly. I'm happy enough knowing that this is being read, let alone enjoyed. <3

Perilous gleam of winter. Iridescent shimmer, aqua, teal and pearl, trapped in a prismatic prison. Where there had once been shining gold, there was only pure white, expanding and expanding and expanding.

He did not care to see further than the horizon anymore.

The windows of Aldrich’s bedchambers touched the floor and the roof with battered, ornate stone, curling and writhing and perhaps alive - perhaps that whole place was alive in the same synthetic way Aldrich was. The snow hurt his eyes, even through the tinted, neglected panes of glass, speckled with dust and blood. Sweet miasma was all around.

“One would not expect to have awoken.” Gwyndolin's voice echoed oddly, bittersweet against what had became familiar stone and structure. Aldrich did not blink, still in fashion with his distinct failures at retaining human nuance. Instead he peered at Gwyndolin like a cat trying to process something alien. Adjusting, maybe. Gwyndolin still had little idea in regards to the mechanisms of Aldrich’s form. Both, really. Should he be ashamed? There had never been any need… any urgency in solving that riddle.

“I am afraid.” He said in a hushed voice, still looking down, and he felt that dooming approach, like shadow over a quiet pond. 

“Gods do fear death.” Aldrich was gazing calmly at the deity, studying, notetaking, as always. Washed in the sharp light of a colourless sun. Gwyndolin parted his lips and took a shaky breath that he hoped was inaudible, for posterity’s sake. The light dimmed, perhaps the work of passing clouds, and Gwyndolin turned to face the disgraced Saint at last. He was no longer a puppet strung together by a few threads of consciousness - now slowly becoming an unbearable mimic of man, more real by the day, trying best to recall and reproduce what being human had been like.

“We were coequals, t’would be more apropos to confide in thee much more than this.”

“Consider it thus.” Came the simple response. Gwyndolin felt his fingers curl into fists.

“What foolishness… thou should be made awares; I could never entertain such frivolities, for all the want.”

“You wouldn’t… ever entertain very much. So it is said.” Aldrich placed a warm hand on Gwyndolin’s shoulder. “What does a god want?”

“Devour me.” Gwyndolin turned, effectively into a haphazard embrace, as it happened, and he could feel black tendrils all along the surface of his heart, weak and yet stubbornly beating. Something divine existed in him, after all, even if it were but a fraction of his former glory. “Thou would have me at peace - I would give mineself in clarity…” Hm, perhaps not clarity, so to speak. His eyes burned, remembering that terrible pleasure. The vice of desperate want… gluttony? Lust? Aldrich did not move, but Gwyndolin did, if only to meet that glazed stare. 

“Did I not vow to come willingly?” Pale fingers moved down the edges of Aldrich’s front, and it felt like he was running them over curls of burnt parchment. Dry and warm. There was some comfort to it, Gwyndolin had to admit, having expected, as always, the feel of ice. Softly, but gravely, he continued: “Did thou not promise to make proper use of mineself?” And then, in his characteristic audacity, Gwyndolin grabbed Aldrich’s face, eyes hard. “I will not be cheated my death. Dominion here, or in the hereafter, thou shalt give to me.”

Aldrich moved his captured jaw, perhaps in a reactionary twitch - that could not have solely been the reflex of an empty vessel. The Devourer had been moved, in one way or another, made clear, too, by his hesitation. The man... he was here. The man who had been Saint Aldrich.

“Pride is a sin.”

“Thou art _constructed_ in sin.”

A chuckle resounded high in the ceiling somewhere. “Ah…”

Gwyndolin’s hand slipped away, and he clung, weak, to his captor. The window dimmed again, grey making way for blue, and he realised the sun was setting.

“The fire dies… it breathes as we do.” Aldrich was holding him, like a lover, like a thing. “The sea sustains itself. It does not breath... It only exists. It makes itself. As it... consumes, it creates. I have seen that new age…” He pressed his lips to Gwyndolin’s forehead, leaned back to meet his eyes. “You will be part of it…” Aldrich spoke softly, and Gwyndolin heard the voice of a cleric. Of a clergyman. That gentle bell of faith, though swathed in decay and corrupted filth, of abhorrent, aberrant life - the product of this Deep. Gwyndolin, too, could see the vastness, but in the stead of glory, he saw only darkness.

“Should my soul persist, Aldrich, it will beg mercy for you.”

Gwyndolin lowered his head, and it touched Aldrich’s chest. He closed his eyes. 

“Impressive.” Long fingers in his hair, caressing. At least he could die in an embrace. “I will never forget… your unwavering faith, however misplaced… such a worthy creature.”

The deity could have cried if the tendrils of Aldrich’s corruption hadn’t thrown him into the swirling vortex of that sorry fate. And there it was, that dark vision, engulfing him - all those sacrifices pulling at him, tearing him to pieces as if he were made of wet paper.

The sun set, and the night was cold.


End file.
